The Water Keeper(76)
That meant the satellite, radio, and telephone chatter had increased a hundredfold and whoever was currently transporting girls knew it. Guys in that business always had an ear to the track, and they could feel when heat was closer. They paid well for that kind of information, which might explain why we didn’t intersect last night or this morning.
Clay listened as I told him the story, his wrinkled face growing more wrinkled as I spoke. When I finished, he nodded and stared north toward the bay. Finally, he sucked through his teeth and put his hand on my shoulder.
I knew we needed to push south, but I was fighting a weariness I’d not known in some time. I told them to grab their bags and we’d shove off. If I quit moving, it’d be some time before I got going again. I was afraid if I closed my eyes I wouldn’t open them again for twenty-four hours. Ten minutes later, we were loaded up and shoving off. Everyone was quiet. The loss of Gunner had hit us hard. I thought through the events of last night for the ten thousandth time, wondering what I could have done differently. The only answer was not to bring him, but then he’d been the one who saw her. Without Gunner, I never would’ve found that girl.
We idled out past the Mexican restaurant, the jet skis, and the sailboats tugging on their mooring lines. I was about to put us up on plane when Summer thought I might be hungry, which I was, so she brought me a sandwich. I paused long enough to open the wrapper and take a bite.
One glorious, magnificent bite. Which gave me just enough time to listen to the world around me.
Clay heard it too. I turned, and there it was again. The sound drew each of us to the gunnel, our eyes searching the waterline. Several hundred yards in the distance, coughing salt water, tired, and barking for all he was worth, paddled Gunner.
Clay stood, slapped his thigh, and swore. “I’ll be a suck-egg mule!”
I cut the wheel, throttled up, and closed the distance. When we reached him, Gunner’s paws were churning the water like pistons. I reached down, lifted him from the water, and set him on the deck where he shook and began licking my face, his tail waving at six hundred rotations a minute.
It was a bright spot in a dark couple of days. We crowded around while Gunner licked the skin off our faces. He climbed up on Clay, spun around, barked, hopped down, ran once around the boat, then again, then tackled me. I had never been happier to see a dog in my entire life. He smelled my sandwich, sniffed it, and devoured it in one bite, only to tackle me again.
I held him, pulled him to me, and said, “Forgive me?”
He ran to Ellie, climbed up on her lap while she sat there and giggled, then Summer, then back to Clay—who laughed out loud. Finally, he lay down on the front casting deck and rolled onto his back, his tongue hanging out. I returned to the helm and spoke to him over the idle of the engine. “When we get to Key West, the steak is on me.”
Chapter 34
Our mood improved immensely. And the trip to Key West passed quickly. Tucked in behind the windshield, I dialed Colorado. He answered, and I updated him about last night, the girl, the investigation, and asked him to make some inquiries. He said he would. I also told him I needed a place for the four of us to stay in Key West. “Someplace that’s dog-friendly.”
I was about to hang up when he said, “One more thing. Sisters of Mercy.”
“Yeah.”
“Used to be a convent.”
“What do you mean, used to?”
“Women quit joining. Nuns grew older. Started dying off. Only a couple left. If that. They own a compound, couple of blocks on the water. They get to keep it ’til the last one dies, then it reverts back to some entity that’s loosely associated with a church.”
“Got an address?”
We passed Islamorada, the fishing capital of the world, and then turned due west, putting Lignumvitae Key off the bow—a three-hundred-acre ancient island, accessible only by boat and named after a small, very dense tree that grows in the tropics. So dense, it sinks in water. At seventy-nine pounds per cubic foot, it’s strong stuff. In Latin, it means “wood of life.”
Lignumvitae Key is Florida before people. Before machines. Before anything, save the breath of God. It’s also home to the exceedingly rare black ironwood—the densest and heaviest wood on earth. Eighty-seven pounds per cubic foot. The Calusa Indians once lived here. They fished, grew citrus trees, and swatted the mosquitoes that swarmed in the billions. Which might be why no one lives here now. The swamp angels have taken over.
Despite my affinity for the untouched beauty of Lignumvitae, we would not be stopping there either.
We followed the chart, turned southwest, and skirted around No Name, Big Pine, Middle Torch, Big Torch, Summerland, Cudjoe, and Sugarloaf Keys. All smaller keys connecting the southern tip of Florida to Key West. Finally, we skimmed across the Waltz Key Basin and into the waters surrounding Key West. Colorado had made reservations for us on the southernmost tip. Just north of Mallory Square at Pier House Resort and Spa. The location was strategic in that it gave us a view of every vessel that passed within eyesight.
Two quiet days passed.
I circled the island several times a day. A twenty-six-mile round trip, it took an hour or so. I was looking for anything. A large yacht. A blacked-out tender. Anything either flashy or subdued that caught my eye. Nothing did. The trail was cold.
Clay arrived in Key West and promptly disappeared. Without Gunner. Curious, Gunner and I followed from a distance. Clay walked into a men’s shop, got fitted, and returned a day later to walk out wearing a new suit, shiny shoes, and a hat. He bought some flowers and walked eight blocks to the Key West cemetery. He zigzagged through the stones for almost half an hour, finally stopping. When he did, he took off his hat, stared down at the stone, and talked. Out loud. After several minutes, he set the flowers down, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. He stood holding his hat, hands crossed. Looking brilliant in his new suit.